


The Symposium

by Ark



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Era, First Time, Fluff, Libertine Greek Symposium, Lots of Sex, M/M, Multi, No Angst, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Sex, Voyeurism, all of the sex, twist ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You claim to know much of man,” says Enjolras.</p><p>“Not I; I know a small bit of everything,” says Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Symposium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harborshore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/gifts).



> some silly fun, because angst gets old. for my sweet [harborshore](http://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore), for distraction. 
> 
> come talk mythology to me on [tumblr](http://et-in-arkadia.tumblr.com).
> 
> symposiums were oft-decadent grecian parties. the word comes from sympinein, "to drink together"

Joly is being fucked by Bossuet on a small stage in Courfeyrac’s courtyard. Their friends lounge around then in the grass, on spread blankets, drinking wine and watching, sometimes shouting encouragement. 

Marius is slack-jawed, while the rest observe with a mix of interest and appreciation. There is open desire on Courfeyrac’s face, and only the circle of Combeferre’s arms keeps him from joining in. 

The beggar girl, Eponine, has been hired for the symposium evening to keep their wine glasses full. She proves an adept server, wiser than her years suggest. She laughs merrily whenever they ask if she’s offended by the show, and swats at their hands when they flirt with her. The wine runs freely, and all partake, until the night air is filled with their joyful friendship.

Enjolras sprawls in the grass, between the twinned warmth of Courfeyrac and Combeferre on his right, and Grantaire to his left. Grantaire is lying on his back, propped on his elbows, his bottle within reach, his eyes fixed on the spectacle. His dark hair is unkempt and has leaves of grass in it. His shoulders are broad and strong and his waist is slender. Enjolras looks back at the writhing bodies under the torchlight. 

Joly and Bossuet come to the quick, to explosive applause. They bow out. There are cheers when Feuilly and Bahorel take their place on the stage. Bahorel lets down his trousers to reveal a staggeringly large cock to match his big frame. Feully further astonishes when he demonstrates his ability to swallow it in one go. Their display of love is skillful and lusty, earning loud whistles from the watchers. 

“Well,” Courfeyrac purrs to Combeferre, “we shall have to show them something else entirely. I am put to shame by Feuilly.”

“We will think of something,” returns Combeferre, confident. 

Enjolras shifts his attention from his friends’ erotic plans and back to the grunts and gasps. Bahorel has his hands in Feuilly’s hair and is screwing Feuilly’s mouth, while Feuilly’s head bobs eagerly. He takes in Bahorel’s massive length as though it were nothing, takes him deep into his throat, down, down all the way. Feully’s lips tickle Bahorel’s belly.

Bahorel spends with a roar that must alert the neighbors, and Feuilly keeps swallowing. After, Bahorel tenderly withdraws. He moves to kneel behind Feuilly, who melts. Bahorel frees Feuilly’s cock, and jerks him with knowing roughness until Feuilly arches into ecstatic release in Bahorel’s arms.

There is silence a moment, then wild applause. Enjolras claps as hard as any. Beside him, Grantaire has two fingers in his mouth and uses them to produce an ear-splitting whistle. He slides his fingers out of his mouth and they are shiny when they close around the neck of his green bottle. Enjolras raises his eyes from Grantaire’s hand curled on the bottle and finds Grantaire watching him. 

For once, neither glance away. The night is about renouncing social niceties, accepting what is considered transgressive. Why should loving be hidden and shameful, and war so proud and public? Their forefathers in wisdom knew otherwise, and indulged in nights like this so as to understand human nature. 

As his friends share their favorite lessons of coupling, Enjolras is learning about himself, in his body’s reaction to certain activities. He seldom indulges in pornography, and to see the acts performed in living flesh is overwhelming. His skin feels tight and his cock stirs.

He tries to show a placid face to his friends, applauding and cheering whenever Combeferre does, but the truth is that the force of his response frightens him. He thought he would be unmoved, perhaps disturbed, but he is more in sympathy with Courfeyrac, half wanting to mount the stage. 

He’s made no secret of his admiration of Feuilly, and he thinks Bahorel wouldn’t mind, Feuilly wouldn’t mind, if Enjolras got up to join them. None present would protest. For an instant he lets himself picture Feuilly’s brilliant mouth wrapped around his cock.

But Enjolras won’t get up. And he’s not looking at the stage anymore, he’s staring at Grantaire. Grantaire who blinks back with bold blue eyes under those impossible black curls, his stubborn red lips pursed. 

Grantaire’s lips part. “Wine?” he asks Enjolras.

A night of transgressions. Enjolras nods, and reaches tor the bottle. His fingers slide over Grantaire’s as he takes the neck. Touching Grantaire lights a fire-pit in Enjolras’ belly. 

Surprised, Enjolras puts the bottle to his lips and swallows quickly. It doesn’t quench the fire, though; it adds fuel; heady heat spreads through Enjolras. He returns the wine without touching Grantaire, then regrets the missed contact.

They’re reprieved by Courfeyrac and Combeferre rising to take the stage. There’s a hush that starts and does not cease, and silently the friends inch closer for a better view. Courfeyrac and Combeferre are like watching a ballet. They are a master-class in making love.

At total ease with each another, seeming to communicate telepathically, they move and caress. Their clothes slip off and their bodies slide and slot together; they kiss and kiss, breathing the same air, not seeming to need air. Combeferre dips Courfeyrac back, and brings him to wrenching climax twice with his mouth and fingers while the crowd bites their tongues. 

Then Combeferre lies on his back while Courfeyrac straddles his magnificent cock. Courfeyrac rides with perfect posture and also with wild abandon. His hair flies in the breeze and his handsome face is the picture of glorious debauchery. 

Combeferre sits up, cradling Courfeyrac in the apex of his arms and legs, and they lift and strive together as a gorgeous body made of many limbs. Their climax is internal, totally focused on drawing out the other’s pleasure, and they hardly indicate when the change seizes them save a tangled, frenzied kiss.

Enjolras’ breathing has quickened, watching his dearest friends love, and there is no doubting his body’s response now. He’s fully hard and that’s difficult to conceal; he wants to roll over onto his belly in the grass, grind against the earth, seek relief from this heightened state. He shifts his stance awkwardly, then is aware that Grantaire is looking at him again.

“Thank you,” says Enjolras, reaching before Grantaire can offer. “I will take more wine.” He paces out the sips this time, and when he hands the bottle back, he lets his fingers graze the warmth of Grantaire’s fingers. Grantaire’s fingers cover his own before Enjolras allows the bottle to slip free. 

Why should they alone of all their friends not get to touch another person on such a night?

There is Marius, at least. Enjolras consoles himself that he and Grantaire are not the only ones without sensual indulgence and a performance to share. Yet the consolation does not last long past Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s standing ovation. 

The pair returns to lounging on a blanket, and Eponine refills the wine; she makes a round to them all, but Enjolras, with his eyes on Grantaire, tells her he is well. He’s engaged in eyeing Grantaire so intently that he doesn’t notice Eponine sitting down by Marius. 

He’s jolted by a half-cough from Combeferre. Courfeyrac is up on his knees, delighted. At center, Eponine is guiding the blushing and dazzled Marius onto stage. 

She masters him immediately, bidding him to lick and kiss her bared breasts. Her breasts are small and high, Marius’ mouth hungry. Then she pushes him down and takes him with the regal air of a queen claiming her devoted subject. 

She sits his noble cock, and rides Marius a great distance. She will not be turned over and taken; she keeps him pinned down with his hands over his head and fucks herself against Marius until he begs her for release.

Enjolras watches the unexpected display with open-mouthed appreciation. Next to him, Grantaire produces an ear-popping whistle, louder than before, fingers back in his mouth. 

Something in Enjolras snaps, and he reaches over to tug Grantaire’s hand free. Grantaire gives him a quizzical look.

“I -- the neighbors,” says Enjolras expansively, not dropping Grantaire’s hand with its slick fingers. “What if they should summon the police to a disturbance?”

“The police are worthless, and will not come, since we are students without money or influence for them to squeeze,” says Grantaire, cynical as ever, and glances at his hand, and Enjolras’ upon it. “If we were politicians at such a party that would be another matter. The police would come.”

“You claim to know much of man,” says Enjolras.

“Not I; I know a small bit of everything,” says Grantaire. 

On stage Eponine denies the pleading Marius relief, her hand curled tight at the base of his cock while she continues to enjoy him. She raises and lowers herself on so that all can see her claim. 

“What do you think of the displays this evening?” asks Enjolras. He still has not let go. 

“Loving should not be concealed,” says Grantaire slowly. “It would be better for all if we were shown such amicable performances, if all had access to educational materials, rather than shroud the thing in shame and mystery. Men and women go mad and are persecuted for how they wish to love and be loved; to me there are few greater misfortunes. Imagine a world where people spoke their desires plainly.”

Enjolras nods in agreement. Cannot resist adding, “As you do, Grantaire?”

“I make outlandish statements. I bait,” admits Grantaire. He cannot seem to stop staring at Enjolras’ hand on his own. “All with good intentions. Many nights, our friends have followed my wickedness with spirited discussions of the carnal acts and their attendant social ramifications. In the wake of ridiculousness from Grantaire, their tongues are loosened, their minds expanded.” Grantaire shrugs, his expression mischievous. “Was it not I who brought up the subject and history of symposiums?”

Enjolras shakes his head, but he’s smiling. He feels the smile fade from his lips. “Yet you do not participate tonight.”

“I am too full of stage fright to risk a solo show, I am afraid. Unless you are here to volunteer as scene-partner?” Grantaire leers into Enjolras’ space, making a joke of it, then away; he smells like wine and cinnamon and pipe tobacco. He lifts the bottle with his free hand and drinks more. “It is quite enough to watch.”

“No,” says Enjolras, suddenly decisive. His body’s demands align with his brain, and he decides.

Grantaire frowns. “It was said in jest. I would not implicate--”

“No,” repeats Enjolras. “I meant, it is not enough simply to watch.”

Grantaire’s frown becomes a puzzled look and an audible swallow. “I do not understand. Speak again, I beg you, and say it plain.”

“Will you perform with me, Grantaire?” Enjolras asks. His grip tightens on Grantaire to affirm the request, and his thumb draws a circle into the soft skin of Grantaire’s inner wrist. With his fingers on the pulsepoint, Enjolras can feel how Grantaire’s heart starts to race.

Grantaire’s face is a blank mask, however, an unexpected response. He looks struck, as though by a mighty blow, or by lightning. 

“Enjolras,” whispers Grantaire. “I cannot laugh at this joke.”

“It was not intended as such,” Enjolras says. He feels himself on the verge of retreat; Grantaire’s eyes are too big. “If you are not interested, I underst--”

“You understand nothing at all,” snaps Grantaire, then softens. His cheeks bloom with color, and he speaks fast. “I did not live until you spoke thus. I was a man half-alive, summoned from Tartarus. Now I am a shade given shape and purpose.” Enjolras blinks, and Grantaire says, “Yes. By God, yes. Do we go at once?”

A thrill runs through them both. Their smiles turn nervous. Eponine is not quite finished with Marius onstage. His gentle sobs permeate the garden. 

“How would you have it done?” Enjolras isn’t about to state the depth of his own inexperience; instead he seeks to use Grantaire’s knowledge. He finds that he is grateful to consider the endeavor with a skilled partner, who will make up for Enjolras’ ignorance. Certainly, Enjolras is well-studied, and after tonight can imagine all variations on the physical acts; but he is relatively untried. 

Grantaire raises an elegant eyebrow. “The process should be by mutual agreement, a compact. Tell me, when you gazed on our friends, which sights moved you?”

“All.” Enjolras exhales, thinking on the attentiveness of Joly and Bossuet, the lust of Feuilly and Bahorel, the passion of Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the surrender of Marius and Eponine. If Jehan were not at his parents’ in the countryside, Enjolras knows the little poet would have displayed the sweetness of loving. He thinks on it further, tries to be honest. “Feuilly and Bahorel,” he tells Grantaire, then flushes. “Courfeyrac and Combeferre.”

“Wise choices,” says Grantaire, maintaining neutrality with what looks like great effort. His blue eyes are cool and nearly calm. “Do you want to fuck me, Enjolras, for our friends to see? You can.”

Enjolras nods. He does. He wants that, badly, a flare of a suggestion that fires up his whole body and electrifies his brain. He doesn’t want to answer “No,” and see what that will do to Grantaire’s eyes. But. The truth is. He doesn’t, quite, not yet -- 

“I,” Enjolras starts, stops, wets his lips, which seems to distract Grantaire for the space needed to breathe through it, “I would rather be had.”

“A -- an enlightened decision,” says Grantaire, pink to his ears. “If you’re certain--”

“I am.” They’re startled by the rounds of applause and “Bravas!” for Eponine and Marius. On the stage Marius is sprawled out staring at the clouds while Eponine gives a neat curtsy for the audience. She rouses Marius and guides him stumbling to the grass, where they curl up. 

Chatter resumes as though their friends think the curtain drawn. Only Combeferre and Courfeyrac are close enough to see Enjolras and Grantaire engaged in their back-and-forth, and that they have been holding hands for some time.

“Shall we?” asks Grantaire, and Enjolras can but nod. They arise as one. At first talk does not fade, but when their intention becomes apparent, a sudden silence sweeps the crowd. Enjolras is the one to lead the way to the stage, the warmth and steady step of Grantaire behind him as they mount the stair. They face each other.

That is when riotous applause, whistles, and rude cheering breaks out from their assembled friends. It is late into the night, but they have never been louder. The sound goes on and on until Grantaire holds up a hand. Then, a total hush descends, the opening of a play on its first act.

Grantaire steps forward, loosens the fall-fronts of Enjolras’ trousers, then falls to his knees. Grantaire’s sharp intake of breath is echoed by the crowd at the revelation of Enjolras’ cock, long and thick, beautiful by standards that measure such a thing. On his knees like a supplicant, Grantaire ducks his dark head, wraps a reverent hand around Enjolras, and begins to lick.

It is different than Feuilly and Bahorel’s display of the same position because they have never done this before. Every touch of Grantaire’s tongue is new and unexpected and to be savored and is utterly astonishing. It feels incredible, better than he predicted, to have Grantaire knelt before him, the heat of his open mouth on Enjolras’ cock. Enjolras senses their friends’ regard, curious and admiring, warmly approving. He realizes his friends foresaw this for them.

Grantaire moves back to swallow him, and Enjolras follows instinct, his hands knotting into Grantaire’s unkempt hair. Grantaire’s mouth and throat are hot heat constricting his cock, and his tongue is wicked, gliding over spots that set off fireworks behind Enjolras’ eyes. 

Grantaire moves up and down on him, takes Enjolras cock in as though it were found treasure after a lengthy quest. His eyelids are heavy, half-closed, his jaw distended. Enjolras tightens his hands in Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire gives a musical sort of hum.

“Fuck his mouth,” calls out Bahorel, helpfully, before he is shushed; but Enjolras has already heard him. 

He shifts his stance, shoulders squared, then holds Grantaire’s head at an angle. He gazes down, watches Grantaire’s lidded eyes open, then starts to thrust his cock between Grantaire’s rounded lips. Grantaire stays in place, compliant, the only sign of his reaction in the fists he bunches at his sides. This goes on and on, being quite extraordinary; but Enjolras slows when he is on the edge -- 

\-- any more, and he will spend. Too soon. He pulls out instead.

Grantaire stays on his knees. There is utter quiet from the garden. “Keep me useful,” says Grantaire. 

“You know my wishes,” says Enjolras.

Grantaire’s nod is slight; then he puts up a hand, grasps Enjolras’ wrist, and pulls him to his knees. Enjolras kneels, facing Grantaire, the audience forgotten. The two of them are alone on the creaking boards covered with carpet and pillows. 

As he undresses Enjolras, then himself, Grantaire is deliberate and unhesitating. He neither teases their watchers nor rushes the act. He exclaims over Enjolras’ revealed limbs, low, intimate remarks unintended to be overheard.

When Grantaire removes his own clothes, he studiously ignores the wolf-whistles from the crowd. He is gracefully built from fencing and boxing and dancing, and his cock is proud and prominent. Half-hard, he already seems huge. 

Grantaire piles pillows underneath them, then carefully helps Enjolras to lie down. He pours out a measure of oil from the amphora at the foot of the stage. As the others come to understand the position they will be demonstrating, the party erupts into a buzz of voices. Enjolras and Grantaire can hardly hear them above the rush of their blood. 

Grantaire presses a delicate finger inside Enjolras, so skilled and slick Enjolras feels only pleasure where he anticipated pain. He gasps for Grantaire, Grantaire alone, who understands, and repeats, just right. Once again it seems to Enjolras that there is no one else in the garden save the two of them, or indeed in all of Paris. 

If the police were to arrive promptly, Enjolras would laugh at them as phantoms. 

Grantaire plies him with added fingers, producing a gentle stretch and a building need. Enjolras can feel his body responding, unlocking, yielding to a state long desired that had seemed far out of reach. He did not know how to articulate this concept, this needing-to-be had; but in the end he barely has to say anything. Grantaire knows exactly what Enjolras wants, and is bent on accommodating him. Grantaire’s dedication to the cause is unwavering. 

Of course Enjolras has long known of Grantaire’s interest in him and Grantaire’s alignment. Grantaire has never been shy, nor one to hold back a highly suggestive speech. They have not come together before now simply because they were too far apart.

In the cafe, at their club meetings, at rallies in the city, their differing opinions caused a gulf difficult to breach. But tonight they are in perfect sympathy, totally agreed. It should be a compact, said Grantaire.

At last Enjolras can bear the separation no longer, and he reaches to draw Grantaire to him. He kisses Grantaire, their first kiss. Awkward click of teeth, then softer lips, then exploratory tongues. Can it really be their first kiss? Can it be Enjolras’ first? He thinks he puts on a good show. He improvises, kissing Grantaire, touching his warm strong shoulders, the strained muscles of his arms. He seizes fistfuls of Grantaire’s messy hair. 

Enjolras looks up, into Grantaire’s waiting, wondrous eyes. “I want this,” he tells Grantaire. 

“I live to serve your will,” says Grantaire, in a soft voice devoid of irony. He pushes his cock into Enjolras slowly, so slow, as though nothing could make him hurry. He rolls his hips, comes inside him like a tide, all-knowing and inexorable. It takes a long time, and for a while no one in the garden breathes. 

Enjolras bites his lip. It hurts, at first, to let another in. But as he adjusts to the breadth of Grantaire’s cock, he discovers it has a capacity far beyond fingers. Enjolras gasps as pleasure ripples down to his toes. He lets out all his air, then starts breathing again, spreads his legs to take Grantaire deeper. Puts up his hips, tosses his head against the pillow, unwilling to be passive.

Grantaire looks thrilled at this response, glad for his participation. He holds still until Enjolras is ready, then angles back to enter him again. This is even better; past filling him up, Grantaire strikes deep, and Enjolras radiates pure bliss. He did not know it would be thus. It seems foolish that they have taken so long to arrive here, and he is vaguely annoyed for lost time.

“Enjolras,” says Grantaire, calling him back. Grantaire looks like a man shattered and put back together; also he is smiling and shiny with sweat and he has never appeared happier. “Speak but a word--”

“Do not insult our obvious compatibility,” says Enjolras hotly. “Would you criticize the ideal form, Grantaire?” He looks away, lets himself glance around at the circle of their friends. Their reactions are exuberant and colorfully ranging. Above him Grantaire’s face becomes exultant when he, too, glances over.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac have crawled forward to sit close, Courfeyrac poised in Combeferre’s lap, their expressions rapt. Joly and Bossuet are whispering furiously, gesturing to the stage, no doubt discussing some anatomical point of interest. He catches Feuilly and Bahorel in the act of trading a sum of money. Enjolras wonders what the bet was: _Despite his protests, I bet Enjolras would take it from Grantaire_ , one of them had said, no doubt. Which one? Only Marius and Eponine are indifferent, and are making love again in the grass.

“Perhaps we are that, well-matched,” allows Grantaire, thrusting again, and when he meets no resistance, he begins to drive himself in and out and in, “we are, of course, enacting a story much older than ourselves.”

“Tell me one of them,” says Enjolras, for his own benefit, and the crowd’s. 

“The -- the great Roman emperor, Hadrian, took as his favorite a spirited youth, Antinous,” says Grantaire at once, as though the tales that he knows lurk under the surface of his skin, but waiting to be summoned forth. 

Grantaire balances on his muscled arms over Enjolras and moves with a steady, delicious tease of a rhythm -- not quite hard or fast enough, not yet. Their watchers lapse back into silence to hear Grantaire speak: “Hadrian allowed for Antinous’ provincial roughness, and educated him, and made him his right hand. It was known that the youth shared the emperor’s bed, and held his ear, amongst other things.” 

Someone of their number laughs and is summarily shushed. Over Enjolras, inside him, Grantaire starts to speed, fucking into him with singular dedication, his body made of whipcord motion. Still Grantaire declaims: “They travelled together, Hadrian and Antinous. They took in all the wonders and mysteries of the world. Then, on a flotilla on the Nile, Antinous plunged to his tragic death. He drowned.”

It is total silence in the garden, and Grantaire pauses above Enjolras, drawn out but for the tip of him. Then he sinks back inside as he explains, “There were many theories as to what -- ah -- occurred. Antinous and the emperor were not short on enemies, of course.” Grantaire cleaves Enjolras so deep. He rocks into him as he talks on and on and on: “Some said it was an accident, that Antinous was drunk and toppled from the ship. Others saw an obvious assassination against the emperor’s beloved.” 

Now, at last, Grantaire gives them what they both desire, thrusts that are unrestrained, the slap of skin on skin that echoes beyond their watching friends and sounds back from the ancient stones of the courtyard. 

Enjolras cradles Grantaire between his thighs and wraps his arms legs around him. He holds on while Grantaire guides them through the present and the past. 

Grantaire is declaring, “I am of the camp that asserts Antinous died for another reason. The emperor was ill for many years, and in that distant century, it was believed that the death of one man could spark the rejuvenation of his fellow. Thus if Antinous died for his Hadrian, perhaps Hadrian would live on. It was a sacrifice.”

Grantaire reaches between them and takes Enjolras’ cock in his clever hand. Enjolras groans, presses up against him. They ride out the last of it together. Enjolras thinks dizzily that they are as unified as Combeferre and Courfeyrac, as trusting as Joly and Bossuet. Lusty as Bahorel and Feuilly, eager as Marius and Eponine. They are something else all their own, or perhaps the reflection of something even more ancient. Grantaire brings them together again and again, and Enjolras rises to meet him, until all restraints are lost. The known rules of the universe no longer fit. 

This is why loving drives people mad, Enjolras understands now. This is why lovers will defy family, friends, all other bonds, intoxicated on this sensation. This is why a young man might plunge into an Egyptian river, in the hope that he could save the person who made him feel like this. 

When Enjolras moans and gives over and spends with Grantaire’s fist tight around him, Grantaire held within him, he does not know if he is Hadrian or Antinous. He is Hadrian: Grantaire intended that analogy, he is sure; the idealistic ruler worth following and dying for. But spread out beneath Grantaire, panting for him and seeing stars for the first time behind his eyes, Enjolras is also Antinous, longing to be shown the secrets of the world.

He tightens up all over, to take Grantaire with him. “Hadrian was a fool, if he knew and allowed it,” manages Enjolras. “Good lieutenants are difficult to procure.”

And Grantaire laughs and drives deep and spills inside him. Hot heat in Enjolras’ depths, a claim staked that none of the others can see. Perhaps they know the moment, because Enjolras tugs Grantaire into a kiss and does not let go. 

If Grantaire were in the audience instead of an active participant, he would get out his sketchbook and drolly offer to draw the scene, they stay like that so long. 

What brings them out of it is the clapping that builds to a deafening crescendo. They are reacquainted with the idea that they are on a platform surrounded by their dearest compatriots. They lie spent, stunned. The night sky overhead is clear and the planets wheel close. 

Their friends are on their feet, cheering and whistling and calling for encores. 

Grantaire is breathing hard against Enjolras’ neck. “That is my desire as well. In half a candle-mark or so.”

Enjolras, satiated, satisfied, feels pliant. “I would see you well put to use, Antinous.” His voice is pitched for only Grantaire to hear. He decides which roles it is they play.

“I fear I will stumble drunk towards the railing of a roiling ship,” returns Grantaire, low.

“Not with a crew such as this,” says Enjolras. Their friends have settled down at last, taken to the grass to follow their own pursuits. Merriment rings out from the surrounding circle, up through the trees towards the constellations overhead. “I would stop you.”

“Then I will go where you choose,” swears Grantaire, “and will not die, lest it means you be recalled. If I am Antinous, I must be certain of our reincarnation.” 

“Now you talk nonsense,” chides Enjolras, and he nips at Grantaire’s tempting lower lip. The rest of the night yields to hazy indulgence on the stage, their friends in celebration around them. 

In the weeks thereafter, they will have many such assignations. They will pass evenings under the stars, and lazy mornings in bright sunlight. Then there will be frantic, caught moments in the midst of grave danger. Kisses become indulgent and craved. Stolen hours where Grantaire gives Enjolras fleeting reassurance through days of blood and grave injustice. 

Grantaire never forgets his promise. He shadows Enjolras everywhere to succor him. When their time comes after their friends are all gone, Grantaire is there to ensure that they are remembered. 

Facing the officers’ guns, Enjolras smiles at Grantaire, and takes his hand, and they face the end together. As Grantaire foresaw -- as myths and histories have long spelled out -- their combined presence makes their demise memorable. They are not soon forgotten. They --

 

* * *

Grantaire is pacing on bare feet back and forth on the hardwood. He chews at a ragged thumbnail. “Well?”

Enjolras glances up from the couch, blinking out of the story. “I mean, it, uh, clips along,” he tells Grantaire, “until you get to the end, and the days of blood--”

“Yeah,” Grantaire nods, leaning in to snatch back the printed manuscript. “Yeah. You’re right. I went way too fast into mass death. I got ahead of myself.” He smooths the papers against his thigh. “You thought it was okay, though?”

“Sure,” says Enjolras, earnest, because he’d enjoyed the story up until everyone died, and Grantaire’s anxious face is one of his least favorite to see. It's rare enough for Grantaire to share his writing. "I was into everyone we know having hot sex. I liked how you wrote me all virginal and desperate. You know I'll be behind the heroic revolutionary apocalypse, once you hammer out the details.” 

Grantaire pulls an aggrieved face. “Those are just placeholder names,” he assures. “For the ease of your reading. I’m gonna change them.”

“So you don’t see us like that?” Enjolras asks, putting up his eyebrows. “You’re saying you’re not willing to sacrifice yourself in a valiant public sex display of your timeless love for me?”

“Try your luck,” says Grantaire, and he tosses the pages over his shoulder as he dives in.


End file.
